The first ray of morning sunlight pierced the clouds and spilled over Mount Momoyama.
Like a phantom, Sasuke returned to the dojo without a sound.
He believed his stealth had been flawless.
But when he pushed open the door to his room, he stopped.
His master, Jigoro Kuwajima, was kneeling in the center of his room.
The old man did not look at him. His eyes were closed, as though he were dozing.
The air in the room was so oppressive it was hard to breathe.
Sasuke walked in silently, ready to take the wooden sword hanging on the wall and begin the day's training.
"You went down the mountain."
Kuwajima spoke.
It was not a question, but a statement.
His voice was low and heavy, like a boulder weighing on the heart.
Sasuke's steps faltered for a moment.
He did not turn around.
"I went to kill demons."
His reply was cold.
As far as he was concerned, there was nothing to hide.
What he had done was right.
Yet that answer was like a spark that instantly ignited a powder keg.
"You little bastard!"
Kuwajima's eyes snapped open, and his furious shout rang out like a sudden thunderclap.
Supporting himself on his single leg, he rose with an agility that belied his age and rushed up to Sasuke in a few long strides.
"What do you take my words for?! Do they just go in one ear and out the other?!"
The old man's chest heaved, and the hand he pointed at Sasuke trembled slightly with rage.
"Did I teach you so you could abuse your power?! So you could do whatever you pleased?!"
Faced with his master's thunderous fury, Sasuke showed no fear at all.
He slowly turned and met Kuwajima's blazing eyes.
"Isn't slaying demons precisely the duty of the Demon Slayer Corps?"
His question was cold, utterly devoid of emotion.
"I was only doing what I should. What's wrong with that?"
"Wrong?"
As though he had heard the most absurd joke in the world, Kuwajima laughed in his fury.
"You call this doing nothing wrong? You revel in power, take pleasure in slaughter, and treat lives as worthless! What makes you any different from those demons?!"
"The difference is that what I kill are demons."
Sasuke's voice was not loud, but every word rang firm.
Those words were like a bucket of cold water thrown over Kuwajima's fury.
He looked at the boy before him.
He looked into those eyes, which seemed even deeper and colder with the Two-Tomoe Sharingan activated.
In that instant, Kuwajima's anger suddenly dissipated.
In its place came a deeper, helpless sorrow.
He slowly lowered his arm, the anger on his face giving way to exhaustion.
He let out a long sigh.
"Yes. What you kill are demons."
"Sasuke, I have never doubted your talent. You are the most outstanding prodigy I have ever seen. Both your understanding of power and your instincts in battle far surpass those of ordinary people."
The old man's voice grew hoarse and heavy.
"But I'm afraid."
"I'm afraid you'll lose yourself on the road to revenge."
"I'm afraid that one day, when you've killed every last one of your enemies, you'll look back and discover that you've become something more terrifying than a demon."
Kuwajima reached out and rested a hand on Sasuke's shoulder.
That hand, covered in calluses and scars, trembled a little, yet its touch was steady.
"If a sword exists only to kill, then it is nothing but a weapon of slaughter. No matter how sharp it is, it will bring only destruction."
"I hope you... can become a keen blade that protects people, rather than merely a weapon for revenge."
Protect people?
A few images flashed unbidden through Sasuke's mind.
There was that golden figure who secretly brought him rice balls late at night, only to turn and flee in fright.
There was his fellow disciple, his senior, who was as timid as a mouse yet could unleash astonishing power while unconscious, all to win with a single strike.
Sasuke fell silent.
For the first time, he did not immediately argue inwardly against his master's lecture.
He still could not understand that conviction to protect others.
But it no longer seemed quite so... hollow and ridiculous.
A long time passed.
Sasuke pulled away from Kuwajima's hand and took a step back.
Then he gave the old man a formal, impeccable swordsman's bow.
He lowered his proud head deeply.
"I understand."
"Until the Final Selection, I won't go down the mountain again without permission."
With that, he turned, picked up his wooden sword, and walked into the morning light to begin his daily practice swings.
Each movement was precise and meticulous.
As Kuwajima watched his retreating figure, a flicker of relief passed through his clouded eyes, but what lingered more was a worry he could not dispel.
He knew he had only temporarily placed a fragile restraint on this keen blade that was about to break free.
As for where that sword would ultimately point, even he could not see clearly.
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